JUNE (43) sits beside a bed where an elderly man, GENE, breathes shallowly. She holds his hand without sentimentality — more like a mechanic checking a pulse.

LEO Because I know you’re not sick. And your husband just texted you asking which bathroom you’re bleeding in. You’re not bleeding. You’re buying time.

He steps closer. Lowers his voice.

She reaches for a syringe. Gene watches her hands.

JUNE You touch my radio, I leave you on the shoulder.

On the bedside table: a half-empty cup of orange Jell-O, a rosary, and June’s OPEN LAPTOP.

[Your Name]